


Washing away the blood.

by imzadinot



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Protective Jack Harkness, Season/Series 01 Spoilers, again i have no idea what i'm doing, i have no idea how to tag this, is there even anyone still in this fandom or am i late to the party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 10:59:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imzadinot/pseuds/imzadinot
Summary: If there was one thing Jack never wanted to have to do ever again, it would be to wash away the blood on someone else's hands.





	Washing away the blood.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm relatively new to the Torchwood fandom and there are a million fics I want to write inspired by the first series alone.
> 
> I have no right to the characters, I'm just borrowing them and a few details to play house. This should be canon compliant though I think I've twisted a few things to suit my ideas.

If there was one thing Jack never wanted to have to do ever again, it would be to wash away the blood on someone else's hands. Somehow, it fell to him to be there when everything else had fallen to shit, to clean his friends up and wash away the traces of the horrors they'd experienced and he wished it wasn't so. 

It wasn't even their blood that he'd sit and remove from under their fingernails or the creases of their skin, but the blood of their loved ones. The blood of the people that they'd throw everything away for and do anything for; a devotion which always led to bloodied hands, broken people and Jack, there to pick up the pieces for them. Even if their disasters had come as part of a personal betrayal to him. 

Maybe he was generalising slightly, making it seem as though it was a common occurrence, which it wasn't, really. Disasters happened maybe once a month at Torchwood but even then, casualties were rare. Sometimes he was just left wiping away tears, brushing shame and embarrassment under the metaphorical carpet. But he'd still been there, washing the blood away from pale skin, trying to keep one of his friends, the people he'd arguably put in that situation in the first place, from falling apart, and he was there far too frequently for him to be over exaggerating. 

First, it had been for Ianto, then later for Gwen. 

With Ianto, he hadn't wanted to do so, hadn't wanted to give away that little bit of kindness. Ianto's tragedy had happened as the result of his own stupidity, his own deception, because of the Cyberman girlfriend he'd hidden away in the depths of Torchwood. Lisa. Once human, half converted, and a secret Jack wouldn't have thought Ianto would have had it in him to keep from them, that he wouldn't have been foolish enough to keep at all. 

Ianto had been a part of Torchwood for years, had survived the battle of Canary Wharf, had seen what Cybermen did, and yet he'd hidden a Cyberman - because that's what Lisa was, really - inside Torchwood, apparently thinking that everything would be fine. Of course, everything wasn't fine, and, eventually, the unthinkable happened. They were knee deep in it, surrounded by bodies and blood and watching a stranger, someone Jack had thought he knew, pull a gun on them with shaking hands, fuelled by desperation. 

In the end, there were three bodies to be dealt with. Lisa, the pizza delivery girl, and one other, someone who'd fed Ianto's hope of ever having his Lisa back. Jack was relieved it was only three, so relieved that he sent Owen, Tosh and Gwen home once they'd surveyed the carnage Ianto's fuck up had caused, letting them go back to the relative safety and normality of the real world and leaving most of the damage to be dealt with later. 

He'd left too, for a while, not wanting to be there. Not wanting to watch Ianto fall even further apart and have to face the reality of the situation. He'd have to, it was his job to, but just not yet. He wasn't sure of where to go, for the first time in a long, long time, and he wandered for a while, finding a still open club and sitting alone at the bar. He wanted to know how he could have missed things, how he could have misjudged Ianto, though he knew why. Jack had a blind spot a mile wide for the people he liked, the people he trusted, and Ianto was one of those people. 

It seemed ridiculous now, but he'd thought it had been the same for Ianto. That he'd trusted Jack, that he'd liked him. Though apparently not enough to not betray him and all the others, though. Jack hadn't been wrong to think that the trust was mutual, after all, they'd flirted back and forth constantly and there had been those moments, moments when Jack forgot he was the boss and that he'd been trying not to start anything with people he had authority over, just so that things couldn't get complicated. Those moments had left Jack thinking that he knew Ianto, that they might have meant something, nothing too serious at all but not totally meaningless either, but he'd seemingly misjudged things. 

Misjudged things to the extent that there would be bodies waiting for him when he went back to the hub. Bodies, blood, and a conversion chamber. Along with whatever had happened to Ianto. Fuck. 

After a while, probably around closing time but he had no real idea, the bartender cut him off, looking at him with a concerned expression that suggested he expected Jack to fall over the moment he stood up but Jack happened to disappoint him. He was far from being that drunk, despite having been drinking for what must have been hours. And whiskey wasn't strong enough to have that effect on him, not when Jack had spent lifetimes drinking the best, or worst, various civilisations had to offer. 

He had to force himself to go back to Torchwood, ignoring all the distractions that he could have enjoyed and trying to get his head around what he'd go back to. The carnage had been significant and he probably shouldn't have left Ianto alone. Not after that, even if there had been threats he wouldn't have imagined Ianto being capable of, along with the very real chance that Jack would have shot him. 

When he'd left with the others, Ianto had still been on the floor, whimpering, and Jack briefly wondered whether he'd still be there or if there'd be more clean up required. Though that was a thought, a possibility that he didn't particularly like and he headed back, finally, spurred on by a sort of worry. 

He'd expected there to still be the chaos he'd left earlier, but the reception was all in order, despite the whirlwind that had torn through it. He carried on, taking the stairs down as they'd been forced to earlier, part of the lockdown proceedings, noticing the smell of blood still hanging in the air but mixed with something more...clinical. Bleach, most likely. He couldn't think of who else it would be other than Ianto cleaning. Owen wouldn't have bothered to have known where the supplies were kept, the same went for Gwen, who hadn't been there long enough, and Tosh had been dead on her feet by the time they'd left. 

Wandering through to the main hub, he noticed that the bodies had been removed, probably taken to the morgue or the vaults, though Jack figured that Owen might protest and want to do an autopsy. Not that there was really much need to do one. Cause of death was pretty clear, and they didn't need to learn anything from the bodies. They'd already learnt plenty. 

The smell of bleach got stronger, and he found Ianto on his knees, slowly scrubbing away at the blood, tears still streaming down his face, though he'd fallen silent. He didn't look up as Jack walked past and Jack didn't look down at him, carrying on to his office, twenty feet above the mess. He didn't turn back, didn't say anything as there was nothing to say, nothing he could say. 

Jack ended up sat in his office, the blinds half open so that he could see what was going on down below but so he wasn't visible. He'd found the bottle he kept in his bottom desk drawer and was working his way through it, thinking. Thinking the same thoughts over and over until he couldn't anymore. 

At some point, Ianto had stopped cleaning, had run out of things to clean, but he was still knelt there, staring at the floor, scrubbing brush clutched in his bloody hands. He was still silent and Jack figured that if he went down there, he'd still be crying. 

On some level, Jack was aware that Ianto had loved Lisa and had lost her and he knew how much that hurt. Losing someone you loved. He'd been there too many times himself. And not only had he lost her, but he'd had to witness the trauma of her complete transformation and see the destruction and deaths she'd caused, and had been able to cause because of him. It was a lot to take in, a lot to have happened and a lot to be weighing on one person's conscience, and Jack began to pity him a little, seeing something of the Ianto he'd thought he'd known in him. 

It was enough for him to make his way back down there, dimly aware that it was close to being dawn or dawn had passed, and he picked Ianto up from the floor, ignoring the clatter the brush he'd been holding made as he dropped it, steering him towards the rooms Jack treated as living quarters, though he seldom used them, but that was more a reflection on him than the rooms. They had running water and he'd set up a cot of sorts in the corner of one of them, covered in old military issue blankets he'd found a crate of. 

Ianto was practically non-responsive as Jack lead him inside and he'd had to help him out of his ruined suit, sitting him down on the bed when he was down to his mostly clean white t-shirt, the blood staining his skin seeming even more incongruous compared to the stark cleanliness of the surroundings. Jack had a bowl of warm water and sat next to him, gently washing the blood away, cleaning under his nails and along his wrists and sponging away the stains on his neck. 

Jack had been aware that the blood hadn't suited Ianto, not that anybody ever suited blood stains, and he began to look better, more like the Ianto Jack had seen every day for years, though he was still sobbing silently, uncontrollably, almost as though he didn't want to stop. The events of the day were beginning to catch up with Jack, evident more so in Ianto's face, and he ended up sharing his bed, having to hold Ianto down to keep him from shaking. 

He wasn't there, though, when Ianto woke, shouting after Lisa, but he heard him even from his office, where he was stood staring down at the hub, unable to believe quite how efficiently Ianto had cleaned up the mess, especially in the few hours he'd been left there, surrounded by the destruction he'd inadvertently caused. It was almost as though it hadn't happened, serving as a testament to Ianto's skill at cleaning up messes. Generally, he handled the messes that Torchwood caused, the mess from Owen's rage against the murdering old man, the chaos resulting from Gwen's disastrous first day at that sperm bank, but Jack had never thought Ianto would be cleaning up his own messes. 

Despite the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon, the hub was silent, empty since Jack had told the others not to come in, meaning he heard Ianto enter the room, for once not mysteriously silent, and he handed him a mug of coffee. He hadn't been able to make it the same way Ianto did, but it was hot and had caffeine so he drank it and Ianto accepted it gratefully, not quite able to look Jack in the eye. 

Jack almost wanted to ask him why he'd cleaned up last night, why his first act had been to scrub away the debris left, but the answer was one he could guess. Because he hadn't been able to stand seeing it, because he hadn't wanted to leave it for them, because he'd needed to do something. Similar reasons as to why Jack had cleaned him up, disposed of his ruined and bloodied suit, let him sleep and then had left him clean clothes to wear, civilian clothing that Jack had almost forgotten he owned. 

Ianto looked better for having slept, though he looked pale and grim and Jack could still hear the whimpers he'd made as he slept, leaving him feeling more sympathetic towards Ianto than he'd otherwise have been. It made him kinder than he'd maybe have liked to be. "You're suspended for three days. It's...more of a break than a punishment, though. Use the time to...take stock. Put this behind you. Come back and we'll start over then. We need you here, last forty-eight hours notwithstanding, you're damn good." 

That had been it, more or less, Ianto had gone and when Owen, Tosh and Gwen had arrived the next morning, no one said a word. Owen looked as though he'd wanted to protest the skipped autopsies but had swallowed his words when he saw the look on Jack's face. 

Ianto had been there on his first day back by the time Tosh had arrived, she was always the first one in, apart from Jack, and she hadn't said anything, dropping into her desk chair and taking the coffee he brought her without a word, not mentioning his drawn expression or the suspiciously new suit, ignoring him as he cleaned away the three days worth of rubbish they'd generated in his absence, pizza boxes and dirty mugs and over flowing bins. 

In typical Torchwood fashion, it was as though nothing had happened — barring one conversation with Gwen that went precisely nowhere — no one mentioned the smell of bleach still hanging in the air and Jack did his best not to remember how the blood had stained the creases of Ianto's hands, the same hands that left a mug of coffee on his desk and had returned the clothes he'd lent him, leaving them on his desk, freshly laundered. 

When it came to Gwen, it had been easier to take care of her, easier for him to wipe away the blood that shouldn't have covered her hands, even though she'd physically fought him, unaware of what was happening except for Rhys. It was something he'd been willing to do for her, wanted to do, just because seeing her like that had been wrong. Cleaning her up had been the least he could do. With Gwen, there was no betrayal and secrecy, she hadn't hurt anyone, not like Ianto had. Though, the death of Rhys and her following actions then had been as much of a betrayal as Ianto's had. 

Jack had wondered why she'd said yes, when the alien had offered to show her the future, why she'd thought she could handle knowing what happened, but he didn't blame her. At one point, he would have wanted to know too. It was a typically human impulse that experience hadn't cured her of, and she probably wouldn't ever learn. And, Jack reasoned, she probably hadn't expected to be shown Rhys lying in a pool of his own blood, to be shown the one thing she couldn't cope with. The one thing that would make her desperate to do anything to prevent it, even though she'd already learnt that lesson, blood staining her hands and holding a knife on street corner in Splott. Jack had cleaned her up then also, but that hadn't been as bad as now. 

Then, it was just a stranger's blood, and it was arguable that he'd deserved it, and he'd actually made the choice. Now, it was Rhys's blood and there was nothing that could rationalise the pain away, especially not when Gwen had brought him here, where she'd thought he would be safe. 

He had to admire her style, most people would have told their partners something, explained in at least a limited capacity and let them keep their dignity, but not Gwen. No, she'd simply stun gunned him and somehow dragged him out of their home, locking him up in the vault, between Janet the Weevil and another example of the madness taking over Cardiff. 

Rhys had been furious when he woke up and Jack had to admit that it had been a tiny bit hilarious, despite the dire circumstances. He hadn't said anything, though, and had simply shrugged, giving Gwen the free reign to go about things as she liked before turning the cameras on to Rhys at all times. 

Gwen had been certain that Rhys would be safe, hell, Jack had been certain that Rhys would be safe, which made what happened next almost unthinkable. When she'd been shown the future, she'd told him that it had been their flat that was the scene of the tragedy, their home, and whilst Jack had known that it was only one possible future, it had seemed pretty safe to remove Rhys from the flat and avoid his death that way, which was what he'd promised to Gwen, no matter how unconventional the arrangements had been. 

Jack had listened as Gwen had described Rhys' injuries and the blood and the stained rug beneath his body, and then he'd had to see the gaping wound and the blood and Rhys collapsing to the floor outside his cell, in Gwen's arms moments later. There weren't many things Jack hadn't seen before and this wasn't one of them, though it felt as strange, as foreign as it had the first time, impossible to comprehend how it had come to this; one of his friends desperately cradling the body of a loved one. 

And Gwen was there, on the floor, one arm wrapped around Rhys, fingers clutching at his clothes, her other hand pressing uselessly against the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding, Rhys' blood covering her hands, staining her clothes and polluting the air with a metallic scent that reminded Jack of too many different instances to name just one. 

He picked her up from the floor, having to force her to her feet but managing despite her fighting against him hysterically, not wanting to let go of Rhys, not even for Owen to get to him. Jack didn't need to see the subtle shake of Owen's head to know that there was nothing to be done for Rhys, though Gwen didn't want to believe it, wouldn't believe it, not even when she saw Rhys laid out on the table Owen used for autopsies. 

She hadn't moved from Rhys' side since, sat there, torn between sobs and silence until Jack hadn't been able to bear it and had grabbed soft cloths and warm water, beginning to wipe away the blood that stained her pale skin, knowing that she wouldn't want to look at herself later and see Rhys's blood still smeared into her skin, wouldn't want the added horror on top of the memories. There were some things Gwen wouldn't need evidence to remember and it was the least Jack could do to wash the proof away. 

No one else seemed to be doing anything, and Tosh, Owen and Ianto stood there, rooted to the floor, watching wordlessly as Jack took Gwen's hand and began to wash away the blood. It covered her hands, her arms, stained her shirt, her jeans, clung to her neck and was even in her hair. He kept cleaning, though, washing away the blood until her hands were no longer stained and the water was crimson. 

For a moment, Gwen had fallen silent, as though she was slowly coming to terms with Rhys' death, and Jack allowed himself a brief moment to wonder how it had come to this, again. How was it that he was again cleaning up one of his friends, trying to keep them together when their world felt like it was crumbling? It was his job, he rationalised, to be there when others couldn't, to do the things others couldn't and, whilst that generally applied to unimaginable situations involving aliens, it seemed to apply now. And Owen or Tosh would be no good at this. Neither one of them was in touch enough with emotion to quite understand. And for Ianto, this probably hit a little too close to home for him to be of any use other than cleaning up the blood staining the floor of the vault. 

Somehow, from there, things escalated. Gwen went from tragically mute to hysterically screaming, clutching at straws, trying to insist that they do the very worst thing they could possibly do at that moment. And everyone agreed. Well, not everyone. Ianto protested, or at least tried to, and Tosh seemed hesitant, but it was mob mentality. They rebelled, they mutinied, they ignored every word of common sense, every command and every cheap dig he threw at that, hurling their past mistakes in their faces to try and shame them into being compliant. 

But no. Against his judgement, against his superior knowledge, against his orders, they went and opened the rift. And they killed him in the process. That wasn’t really too much of an issue, the matter at hand was their betrayal and the mistake they’d been insistent on making that would have had, and did have, global consequences. Not that they’d really cared at the time. 

Owen and Gwen were insistent on following in Ianto’s footsteps and turning to desperation when it came to people they loved. Repeating Ianto’s mistakes and choices, varying in the execution and outcome, but the basic reasoning was the same. But somewhere along the line of repercussions to be faced, Gwen got her wish and Rhys hadn’t died, or didn’t die, or somehow came back, the details were still a little hazy for Jack, and the blood he’d washed from her hands hadn’t even been there in the first place. 

Opening the rift had many effects, including bringing back Rhys, like Gwen had wanted, but not Diane, not as Owen had hoped, and it was then left to Jack to right the wrongs made by the stupid, scared children who worked for him. And he did. Of course, he did. Dying over and over and over again, and he vaguely remembered, looking at Gwen as his eyes opened for the last time, washing hands clean of blood, and he was glad that someone wouldn’t have to wash his blood away from Gwen’s hands later. 

Miraculously, it wasn’t the end of the line for Jack, though he’d figured before then that there’d never be an end of the line for him, and even as he forgave them all — Owen, Tosh, Gwen and Ianto, always Ianto, it seemed — he blamed everything on having to wash away the blood from his friend’s hands, and traced everything back to those acts of kindness, the acts that he hoped to never have to repeat again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
